


Valar Morghulis

by Rumpabumbum



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, Murder, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 05:12:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8191499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rumpabumbum/pseuds/Rumpabumbum
Summary: How much is Sansa Stark's life worth to Margaery Tyrell?





	

                Long ago, Margaery had stopped believing in fairytales and ghost stories and the gods. They were mere tales in the Reach, long forgotten except for at parties. She only believed what she saw.

                She had seen the acts of the red god, though. She’d seen a man die in front of her, his face ripped off as an offering to by the faceless men.

                When Margaery learned that Sansa’s sister was among their disciples, she was surprised, but not appalled. Valar Morghulis. It was a fact she had always accepted.

                Until the day Arya showed up on their doorstep shouting, “Open the damn door now!”

                Margaery, who had been reviewing statements as she prepared to defend Renly Baratheon in court, strutted to the door and opened it. “Arya, what are- Seven Hells! What the fuck happened?!”

                Arya, covered in blood, ran in and locked the door behind her.

                Sansa shoved past Margaery to stand in front of her sister. “Gods Arya, are you okay? Are you injured? Damn it, I told you not to get involved with that cult!”

                “I know! I know and I’m fucking sorry okay! I just- I need you to know that I tried to stop it! I begged them, but they said it’s what he wanted. I can’t let them do it!” Arya was sobbing.

                Margaery was struck with fear. Arya never cried. She had never seen a single tear roll down the girl’s face, and it frightened her more than anything.

The Starks had all quietly accepted Arya’s life decisions. They reasoned that she only killed those worthy of death: Walder Frey, the Tickler, the Mountain. Arya was family first and foremost.

                Sansa led Arya to the kitchen table. “Margaery, get me some towels, please.” Her hands shook as she stripped bloody garments off of Arya.

                Margaery ran up the stairs and grabbed three towels. She also grabbed some spare clothes for Arya from her and Sansa’s closet. She could hear Arya talking, but her speech was muffled by the walls and her crying. As quickly as she could, she ran back down.

                Arya was standing in a her under garments, her arms coated in blood, her face cleaned on one side. A wet, bloody paper towel lay on the floor between Sansa and Arya. “I’m sorry Sansa. I wish I had never gone. I’m so sorry.”

                Margaery didn’t process this. She ran to the sink and soaked a towel. When she came back, Sansa was still staring at Arya. Arya took the towel from Margaery and rubbed at her face.

                Margaery looked back to Sansa. “What’s going on?” she asked.

                Sansa looked down into Margaery’s eyes. The blue in her eyes paled with fear. “I- I’m going to die,” she breathed.

                Margaery couldn’t have heard her right. “What?” She turned back to Arya. “What does she mean?”

                “The red god gave me Sansa’s name. I’m supposed to kill her,” Arya blurted. She rubbed harder at her skin. “I told them no, I couldn’t. So they ordered the waif to kill her instead. I stopped her.”

                Margaery’s heart froze. She couldn’t breathe for a moment. The faceless men never refused the red god, and they never failed to deliver a name. Margaery lunged to Arya. “What have you done?”

                Arya’s skin was raw and pink. She looked child-like, not like the warrior she had spent the last four years training to be. “I won’t do it. I’ll kill them before I let them near Sansa.”

                Margaery’s eyes flashed and she grabbed Arya’s shoulders and shook, digging her nails into the girl’s skin. “And what about when they kill you? How can you protect her then?” she screamed. She couldn’t lose Sansa, not so soon.

                “Stop!” yelled Sansa.

                Both women stared at her. She slowly walked between them, gently pressing her trembling hands to Arya’s shoulders until she sat in the chair. She laced her fingers with Margaery’s as she said. “Valar Morghulis.”

                Margaery shook her head, fighting back her tears. “No. No, you’re not going to die. There has to be a way to top them, to stop this.” She leaned her head against Sansa’s chin. “We can negotiate with them.”

                “You can’t negotiate with a god.” Sansa said. Margaery’s heart fell at the acceptance in Sansa’s voice.

                “Fuck the red god. Gods don’t speak to mortals. It’s all a sham.” Margaery didn’t care if Arya heard her. “We can talk to the henchmen. Bribe them or, gods, I don’t know.”

                Arya walked around to stand behind Sansa and  looked at Margaery. “The red god doesn’t negotiate and the faceless men do not question. Except for me. I did this San. I’m not going to let you die because I screwed up, at least not without taking out as many as I can.”

                Sansa shook her head vehemently and turned toward Arya. “Let them do it, let it end. I’m at peace with it, truly.” It was a lie. Margaery could tell in the way Sansa stared at Arya’s nose rather than her eyes and in the way her voice quivered.

                “You know I can’t, sister,” Arya said.

 

* * *

              

                That night, Margaery held  Sansa close to her, stroking her hair as she slept against her chest. She bit her lip, trying not to sob as she remembered her brother and father’s deaths. Sansa was the one who comforted her, told her it was okay to mourn and miss them. Without Sansa, Margaery wouldn’t have remained sane.

                Sansa’s life was worth a million others. Something in the back of Margaery’s mind clicked, a tale of the red god from long ago. Margaery silently slipped out of bed, careful not to wake Sansa, and ran downstairs.

                On the couch, Arya watched television and nursed a cup of coffee. “Couldn’t sleep?” she asked.

                Margaery ignored her. She grabbed her jacket and purse from the closet and slipped on her boots.

                “Where are you going?” asked Arya.

                “Out,” said Margaery. She shut the door behind her before Arya could respond.

                Arya wouldn’t follow. She was all that stood between Sansa and those nuts. It afforded Margaery the opportunity she needed.

                She got in her car and drove. She slowed as she neared the temple of the red god, stopping a block away from the tall pillared building. No one lingered outside, not that Margaery cared. Someone would be there.

                Her boots clacked against the stone steps, echoing off the pillars and walls. She pushed the giant wooden door open, surprised by how light it was. The hall was lined by torches that guided visitors to an alter room. There, Margaery knelt and waited.

                “A man knows who a woman is,” said a voice. Margaery calmly looked up. The man was had shoulder length hair, half white and half red. “And a man knows why a woman has come.”

                “Then you know the deal I propose,” she said. She stood and stepped up next to the alter.

                The man was shorter than she expected, only a couple inches taller than her. “A man does. But it is not that simple. The red god values this life more than the others. A life for a life will not satisfy him.”

                “How many?” asked Margaery.

                The man thought for a moment. “Fifty. By your own hands.”

                Fifty murders. Killing one person was beyond Margaery’s imagination. Let alone fifty. Margaery considered his words.

                “I can pay you off, you know. You can keep your cult, play your game of death, kill whomever you please, just please let Sansa go,” Margaery begged. She had never demeaned herself this low before.

                The man laughed. “A man cannot defy the will of the red god. He has given a name, and a man must obey. His price is fifty.”

                “There is no red god, you fool. These people die because you kill them, not because of some bloody god. She is a good person. Why do you want to kill her?”

                The man stepped forward. “You know a girl’s stories, correct? The red god does not take kindly to blasphemy. He has offered you what you wished for, an opportunity to save Sansa. It is not an offer he makes forever.”

                Fifty people for her love. Margaery nodded. “Your god will have his due.”

 

* * *

              

                Margaery’s hands shook as she adjusted the blond wig into a bun at the top of her head. With the wig and a little make up, she looked like a different person. She rubbed her hands over the black apron tied around her waist, making sure the small vial was still in the pocket. It was. One last glance in the mirror and she left to re-enter the restaurant.

                She peered around the room, looking for the familiar blond head. He sat between his mother and uncle, face contorted into a sneering laugh. Joffrey Baratheon. The youngest mob boss in King’s Landing. The first name given to her by the faceless man.

To say Margaery was reluctant to take Joffrey’s life would be a lie. His cruelty was known well throughout the seven kingdoms. It had been under his command that Sansa’s father was murdered, yet here the boy sat, merrily drinking wine and eating steak. This was justice.

                Still, Margaery was nervous. She willed her hands to stop shaking, slipped the vial into her sleeve, then walked to the table. Thinking quickly, she grabbed a wine pitcher from a nearby empty table. “More wine?”

                “Yes, yes,” he said. He didn’t look up. He went back to his conversation, but Margaery noticed his mother watching her closely. “Send it to the Stark girl, as a reminder of what we do to rats…”

                Margaery tipped the glass over, knocking a half filled cup into his mother’s lap. “You stupid bitch!” she screeched. She jumped out of the chair and patted down her skirt, now stained with red wine.

                “I’m so sorry, madam,” Margaery said.

She offered to help the woman clean up, but she pulled away. “You’ve done enough, imbecile. I will see to it that your job ceiling is as a fry cook, when I return.”

The table stared at Margaery until Joffrey’s uncle chuckled a little. “What’s dinner without a good show?”

Where’s my wine?” demanded Joffrey. Margaery took the cup back. Without the prying eyes of the boy’s mother, Margaery poured in the vial’s contents as she poured the wine, mixing the two seamlessly. She handed him back his glass, and moved on to another patron. Joffrey drank.

“Father will return with a shipment from the Vale soon. He says this load is more potent than the last. We should make $3,000 per gram,” said the uncle.

                “Took the oaf long enough. If he would stop treating me like a child we would”- cough- “not need to rely on”- cough, cough- “drug runni-”. Joffrey choked violently, coughing non-stop. His face began turning purple.

                “He’s choking!” cried Margaery. Joffrey’s mother pushed her from behind and knelt down next to her boy, who was slumping over the table. “Someone call 9-1-1. Get help!” Waiters and waitresses scrambled around the restaurant. Another diner ran over and began CPR on Joffrey. It was useless.

                Margaery quickly walked to the emergency exit and slid out the door before the alarm went off. She ran to her car and pulled off the wig.

                He was her first kill and she felt nothing but gratitude that it was not Sansa.

 

* * *

 

                Margaery’s second kill was more difficult. He was simple enough to kill, but it took slightly more of an emotional toll on her.

                She had known Tommen in grade school. He was quiet and sweet, always treated his classmates with kindness. How he was roped into his family’s drug business, Margaery did not know.

                As the heir to the Baratheon cartel following Joffrey, the red god had given Margaery his name next.

                She borrowed a still-running car from the gas station. The sun was nearly blindingly bright and the Baratheons were holding their viewing for Joffrey at the Sept. That was where Margaery waited for him to emerge. It was almost dusk when he came out, hands shoved into his pocket.

                Margaery clenched her eyes shut and floored the gas pedal. The car sped forward. She felt the moment of impact. A sickening crunch and then a scream. The car dragged him beneath the car, and still Margaery kept her eyes closed. Only when the back wheels rolled over the body did she open them and slam on the breaks. Blood smeared across the wind shield.

                Gasps and screams emanated for the sidewalks. Margaery jerked the steering wheel to the left and turned. The wheels squealed, drowning out more screams. She drove into the back ally she scouted out earlier, fully aware of the sirens getting closer to the Sept. She ditched the car and pulled off her gloves, shoving them in her pockets. She didn’t look back to survey the damage, electing to just run instead.

                She caught a cab and shoved ten dragons into his hand. “I wasn’t here and you’ve never seen me before,” she said. The man’s eyes lit up when he counted the money and he nodded.

                Tommen was going to turn into a monster like Joffrey, she told herself. She had done the world a favor by killing him. Had probably done him a favor as well. Margaery’s chest clenched when her thoughts wondered back to Sansa. This was for her. Better him than her.

                The cab driver dropped Margaery at her office building. When she reached her office, she pulled off the wig and shoved it into her desk drawer. She removed the gloves and laid them on top. Later, she would erase the security tapes. For now, she needed a drink.

 

* * *

 

 Arya stopped playing body guard. Initially she did not believe the faceless men when they told her the red god no longer required her sister. They were known to lay traps.

                After a week without a sign of an assassin, Arya believed. “He must have found a replacement,” Arya shrugged, as though it was nothing.

                “A replacement?” said Sansa. “It’s not like buying a different color dish, Arya. If it’s not me, then they’ve killed someone else. Does that not bother you?”

                Arya shrugged again. “Valar Morghulis, Sansa. As long as I don’t know them, it doesn’t matter.”

                That night, Sansa curled up in bed reading her a collection of the myths of Asshai. Margaery was working late again. She’d been working late all week and it scared Sansa. What if the faceless men went after her instead?

The reality of their danger didn’t sink in until stories of a blond serial killer flooded the news. There was a new murder every day, always appearing random in choice and method. All the police had to go on was a blur of yellow hair in a security tape outside the bar where Theon Greyjoy was found dead with his pants around his knees and his intestines separated from his stomach early this morning.

The idea that someone could to that to another human nauseated Sansa. That such a madman might be near Margaery sickened her more. She couldn’t protect her, so she prayed to whichever gods would listen.

                Her heart jumped in elation when she heard the door unlock and the thud of keys against the table. Sansa crawled out of bed to greet Margaery.

                Sansa walked downstairs, confused when she didn’t see Margaery at the table. She usually ate immediately on late nights like this. Then the faucet in the bathroom began running.

                “Margaery, you here?” asked Sansa.

                “Uh, yeah, sweetling. Just cleaning up a little. I’ll be up soon,” called Margaery.

                Sansa came to stand outside the bathroom door. “I’ve missed you baby. And I’m worried about you. That psycho is out there and you’ve been working so late recently. Not to mention the faceless men. Are you staying safe?”

                “I’m okay, San, really. I’m never at the office alone. We can talk about this later okay. Or tomorrow. Just go on to bed, darling,” Margaery rushed her words.

                “I just… I love you. There’s so much madness going on right now, I feel like I don’t tell you enough. I love you, Margaery,” said Sansa.

                Margaery was silent for a moment. “I love you too, Sansa.”

                “I’m coming in, okay,” said Sansa. She reached for the knob.

                “No don’t, I’m not-” said Margaery.

                “I’ve seen you on the toilet before, Marge, it’s not like…” Sansa’s tongue stopped working as the door opened. It was as though she forgot how to speak when she saw Margaery holding a blond wig and brandishing a small, blood tipped knife. On her behalf, Margaery looked as stunned as Sansa felt.

                “What the fuck is this?!” she screamed when her senses returned to her. Then it was as though all the gears clicked into place at once. The late nights, the faceless men’s end, the blond wig, the murders; it was all her.

                Sansa cupped her hand over her mouth and tears filled her eyes. “It’s you,” she whispered.

                Margaery lowered her arms slowly. The faucet continued running behind her, completely forgotten about now. “Sansa I can explain,” she said. She held out the hand with the wig.

                Sansa stepped back, eyes never leaving Margaery. “Stay away from me.” She slowly walked backward. Margaery followed her step for step.

                “San, it’s not as bad as it seems. Just sit down and we can talk,” soothed Margaery. She placed the knife on the table and reached out for Sansa again.

                Sansa jerked back further when they reached the living room. “Don’t you fucking touch me,”

                When she was close enough, she turned and fled up the stairs, her long legs enabling her to take two stairs at a time. She got to the bedroom and slammed the door. She struggled to turn the lock.

                The hesitation gave Margaery enough time to start pushing the door open. “Sansa, please, you don’t understand. I’m saving your life.”

                Sansa shoved back. “If you come in here, I swear I will call the damn police.” Sansa felt down for her phone. It was on the bed, though. She judged the distance between herself and the bed. If she could dive quick enough, she could dial 9-1-1 without any issue.

                Sansa jumped and grabbed the phone. She immediately pressed the “9”. The force of Margaery jumping on top of her nearly caused Sansa to cancel the call. She felt Margaery’s strong arms pull at her torso, rolling her over. Sansa fought against it and hit the “1”. Before she could press it again, her phone flew across the room with the force of Margaery’s hand against her own. Sansa kicked Margaery near her groin, but Margaery held tough, finding the will to straddle Sansa’s stomach. She squeezed her wrist tightly and Sansa yelped in pain. Margaery’s nails were digging in hard. Margaery grabbed her other wrist and pinned them both above her head. Kicking didn’t do any good anymore.

                Sansa lost the will to fight and began to cry. Margaery wasn’t a killer. Margaery, who volunteered her skills as a defense attorney to those who couldn’t afford one, who played with children at the orphanage every other Sunday, who loved gardening and sappy rom-coms, couldn’t be a murderer. But all the evidence pointed to the truth.

                Margaery panted above her, her hold never slackening. Sansa couldn’t look at her. “Sweet girl, it’s not what it seems,” she said.

                “Then tell me what it is, because it seems an awful lot like you’re murdering people Marge!” Sansa yelled. Her cries quieted. She was finally able to look up through bleary eyes.

                Marge’s face, usually vibrant and joyful, looked pained and sad. “It’s all for you, my love. It’s the price I’m paying to keep you with me. I love you, Sansa. I can’t live if you’re not with me.”

                “How high is the price Margaery? How many people do you have to slaughter just for me?” Sansa asked.

                “I kill those who deserve it, Sansa. Murderers, rapists, drug pushers, child abusers. A million of them could never be worth one of you, my love,” Margaery loosened her grip slightly. Sansa wiggled her wrists but didn’t fight.

                Her voice tightened though. “How many Margaery? How many?!”

                “Fifty!” screamed Margaery. Her eyes clenched tight. “The red god demands fifty lives for you. I’ve given him twelve so far.”

                “Gods, Marge,” whispered Sansa.

                “I’m doing the world a favor by killing them.” Margaery said.

                “Says who?” asked Sansa. “You don’t know them. They could be good people, Margaery. People with families, and children and friends. Fifty lives gone, fifty families destroyed. It could’ve been one, it could have just been me!”

                “I have nothing without you! I have no family and you’re my best friend! I can’t lose you!” shouted Margaery. She collapsed on top of Sansa and cried into her shoulder. “I can’t.” she repeated over and over.

                Sansa let her cry for a minute. Despite everything, she loved Margaery. Seeing her hurt this much was more painful than driving a stake through her abdomen.

                Eventually, she finally said. “You have to stop. We can run away. Go to Essos, get new names, new identities. We can move past this, but you have to stop now.”

                Margaery shook her head. She pushed herself up and sat back. “I can’t. They’ll find you. Arya always found her man, they won’t be any different.” She released one wrist and traced her finger down Sansa’s chin.

                “Please,” begged Sansa. “Please, let us try.”

                “I won’t risk it,” said Margaery. She was fully disarmed.

                Using the opportunity, Sansa shoved Margaery off of her. “I can’t do this. I can’t stay here.” From under the bed she pulled out a suitcase. She scrambled across the room and started grabbing clothes from her drawers.

                “Please, Sansa. Don’t leave,” whispered Margaery. She encircled Sansa’s waist and hugged her gently.

                Sansa yanked away from Margaery’s grasp and slammed her clothes into the suitcase. “For Crone’s sake, you’re a murderer Margaery! I can’t condone this. I can’t sit idly by and watch the love of my life murder strangers.”

                “You had no problem with it when it was Arya,” said Margaery.

                Instinctively, Sansa reached back and slapped Margaery across the cheek. The sound of flesh striking flesh echoed in the room.

                Her relationship with Arya was sensitive at best. Sansa and Arya never got a long great as children, but were still extremely protective of each other. When Arya had joined the faceless men, a blowout between the sisters ensued. They didn’t talk for months afterward, and Sansa hadn’t approached the topic with Arya about it until a week ago.

                The red mark on Margaery’s cheek mocked Sansa, but she ignored it. She kept packing.

“What are you going to do?” Margaery asked.

“I don’t know,” said Sansa. She picked up her phone. She could press the last “1” and end this now. Even if Margaery took the phone from her, the police would come to check on her. All the blood and insanity could end.

Sansa sighed and cancelled the call. She looked at Margaery, who sat cross-legged on the bed, fists scrunching one of Sansa’s old t-shirts. Sansa zipped her bag and pulled it over her shoulder. “I can’t stay here though.”

She took her bag and went downstairs, found her purse and walked to the front door. She turned to see if Margaery would follow her and beg her to stay. She didn’t.

Love could outweigh many wrongs, but not this.  Sansa pulled the door open and walked into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Papers piled up on Margaery’s desk. Her bosses  became concerned following her “big breakup”. Hoping she would return reinvigorated and back to normal, her bosses gave her early vacation.

Margaery used the time to implement her plans. After causing a boat accident which killed Illyn Payne and six bystanders, Margaery learned the red god would accept more names in the course of an assassination. If people were stupid enough to associate with people heinous enough to be given to her, they must not be a life worthy of saving.

Her plans became less selective, tending toward mass rather than discreetness. Margaery knew Sansa would eventually understand. One day, when they were old and wrinlkly, Sansa might even thank her. The idea didn’t help her sleep at night when she wondered what Sansa was doing and whom she was with.

Her 28th name was Viserys Targaryen. All she knew about him was that he was the son of the governor, which meant he would be at the governor’s ball that evening. An event with hundreds of people, enough to fulfill her body count.

Thinking quickly, Margaery drove to the Goodwill and stole a raggedy purse. Then she prepared for the event. Dressed in a green strapless dress and blue heels, Margaery gently placed one of her acquired bombs into the bag and drove carefully to the governor’s mansion.

She slipped into the crowd and softly set her bag on the ground. No one noticed. They were all jumping over each other to glance the rich and famous of Westeros. Margaery shoved her way out of the crowd and drove as fast and far as she could.

When she got home, she pulled off her wig and turned on the tv. Finally it would end. Maybe she could begin mending her relationship with Sansa. Things would never return to normal, but perhaps they could move on.

A picture of a person in a wolf mask in the middle of the crowd flashed on the screen. “-possibly saving dozens, if not hundreds of lives tonight. Police are currently investigating who left the bomb. They would also like any information on the Rogue Wolf, as our masked hero has also disappeared without a trace.”

Margaery threw the remote, busting a vase.

               

* * *

 

It was the first of many botches. Margaery managed to take out Viserys by framing him for theft from the wrong man. The Rogue Wolf, however, intervened in her mass plans. Disarming bombs, helping victims avoid car accidents. No matter the plan, the hero showed up.

                With each failure, Margaery felt the faceless men breathe harder down her back.

“A woman has one more chance,” said the cult leader. “The red god has demanded Petyr Baelish and the Rogue Wolf. A man is willing to forgive your debt if a woman can kill either one. However, if a woman fails, Sansa Stark will die tomorrow.”

Margaery gulped. “I understand.”

Petyr Baelish was the savviest man in Westeros, but he was cocky. An old family friend of the Starks, he was rumored to have set up the assassinations of many of the great political leaders of Westeros. Then he would rise the ranks of each subsequent political cabinet. Now, he was secretary of state.

 Margaery decided on a simple approach. She grabbed her gun and waited outside Baelish’s hotel. It was simple enough to be unexpected. All of her deaths had been intricate so far. No one would expect a blunt approach.                

She waited in her car for hours. Finally, he came out and walked behind the hotel and into some back alleys. He was alone, and Margaery had her chance.

She found him smoking a cigarette by the dumpster. From behind a corner, she quietly cocked her gun and pointed. She locked the aim and pressed her thumb to the trigger, aiming for an artery.

Suddenly Margaery was falling forward, her gun scattering across the ground. She landed, faced down on the ground with arms locked around her waist. She looked up to see Petyr Baelish fleeing.

“Damnit!” she screamed. She swung her elbows back, knocking her attacker in the head. The grip slackened and she pulled forward with all her strength, breaking free. She lurched forward for her gun, but so did her assailant.

The attacker wore a wolf mask. The Rogue Wolf. The two wrestled over the gun. Margaery had her hands on the hilt, Rogue Wolf had theirs on the barrel.

“You damn idiot!” she yelled. She had the Wolf on its back with her on top. Baelish was gone, but the Wolf had given her a gift. With the barrel angled toward the Wolf’s stomach, Margaery pulled the trigger. The Wolf let out a feminine cry and dropped their hands to their stomach immediately. Margaery smiled.

It was done.

“You should have stayed out of things. It didn’t have to be this way. It was supposed to be Petyr, not you. But I’ll take it all the same.” Margaery pointed the gun toward the Rogue Wolf’s head and reached for the base of the mask. She wanted to see her enemy before killing her and know whom she had to thank for being her foolish final victim.

She tugged the mask off. Red hair flung out. Margaery’s jaw dropped as did the gun.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no.” She pressed her fingers against the growing pool of blood and climbed off her victim.

Sansa Stark lay on the ground, gasping shallowly. “I-I tried-to stop-you” she managed.

Tears filled Margaery’s eyes and stained her cheeks. Blood stained her fingers as she pushed harder. Sansa flinched.

“You can’t- you can’t” cried Margaery. She couldn’t say it.

Sansa lifted her hand to Margaery’s cheek and brushed her tears. “Valar Morghulis. It was inevitable.”

Margaery shook her head. The tears came harder. “No. He promised you would live! He promised! You can’t leave me.”

Sansa’s breaths came faster. “You have to let go, my love.”

“I can’t. I won’t.”

“You can and you will.” A soft exhale, then nothing. Sansa’s eyes glazed over, staring up at Margaery.

Margaery openly sobbed and cradled Sansa’s head in her arm, still holding her abdomen with her other hand. That was how the police found her.

On that day the red god claimed two lives. Margaery Tyrell ceased to exist.


End file.
